


A Year and a Day

by Jaye_Voy



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Adult Content, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaye_Voy/pseuds/Jaye_Voy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy's transition from mourner to survivor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My personal backstory for Bones is in the story ["The Last Goodbye"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6574597).  
> It's not really related to this story, but explains how McCoy lost his father and his daughter within weeks of each other, just before joining Starfleet.   
> Originally written in 2009. Although there are some tweaks, the story's contents (and its flaws) are mostly intact.  
> Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the property of Gene Roddenberry as re-envisioned by JJ Abrams. No infringement is intended or profit made. This is PG-13 for adult themes, implied character death, and language.

Jim was dead. McCoy always wondered how he would handle it if Jim died on his watch. Now he knew.

He wasn't sure yet whether it was better, or worse, that the matter had been completely out of his hands. Jim had, as usual, beamed down to an unexplored planet without enough prep and with too few guards. He had also, as usual, thrown himself into a skirmish with his typical first-in-line-for-a-fight enthusiasm.

Usually, he'd outlast whichever opponent was shooting at/pummeling/tossing him around. Then return to the Enterprise to get patched up and laugh about it being just another ordinary day.

But not today. Today was...unusual.

Today the natives had been wielding battleaxes. Today Jim didn't duck fast enough. Today he couldn't be patched up. And he'd never laugh again.

McCoy couldn't have saved Jim, even if he'd been on the planet. But he also couldn't stop thinking that he should have been there, at the end.

The truth of a universe without Jim---friend for five years, lover for five months---hadn't hit McCoy yet. He was numb, cold...as unresponsive as the remains of Captain James T. Kirk laid out on a slab in the morgue. Maybe as dead.

He sat in his office chair, staring at his empty desk. Letting time move forward without him.

The door slid open with its quiet whoosh. He didn't move. Spock walked in and sat, his precise movements edged with tension.

McCoy flicked him a glance, long enough to acknowledge the added darkness shading Spock's brown eyes. Then his gaze dropped once more.

"I grieve with thee." Spock's voice, like his body, thrummed with things unsaid, though clearly not unfelt.

A nod was all McCoy could offer in return. His own emotions were battering at that comforting blanket of ice. He couldn't let it fracture here, now.

"Doctor..." Spock steepled his fingers. "There are arrangements that need to---"

"No!" McCoy took in a breath, released it. "No," he repeated more quietly. He lifted a hand to rub fingers against his forehead, slumped his elbows onto the desk. "Do whatever you want, I don't care. Jim---" He choked, swallowed. "Jim won't care either."

Spock nodded, stood. His hand rested brand-hot on McCoy's shoulder for a moment. Then he was gone.

McCoy folded his arms upon the desk and let his head fall forward, eyes closing. Welcoming the darkness.

************************************************************

"C'mon then."

The voice woke McCoy from a fitful doze. Jim was dead. It didn't even take a nanosecond to remember that.

He lifted bleary eyes, blinked until Scotty's face swam into focus. For the first time since they'd met, Scotty's face was...still. Not lit with animation or scrunched in concern for his engines. Just set into lines of sorrow that probably echoed McCoy's own. "Huh?" was all McCoy could manage.

Scotty took one of McCoy's wrists and pulled McCoy to standing, draping the captured arm across his own shoulders. He slid the other arm around McCoy's waist and started walking them to the door. "Ya need some real sleep, Doc. Chapel and Uhura were wantin' to hypo ya, the rest wanted me to beam ya to yer room."

He shrugged, the movement rippling through both of them. "Didna think ya'd appreciate either plan."

McCoy just grunted and stumbled along. He was trying desperately not to remember hauling Jim the same way aboard the Enterprise that first time, two years ago now.

And how often they had re-enacted the scene, with Jim groaning or giggling or groping depending on his mood and alcohol level.

The ice broke as McCoy turned his face into Scotty's neck. Scotty didn't smell anything like Jim. A hot, dark stain spread over Scotty's shirt.

They kept walking.

Eventually McCoy was in his quarters and laid upon his bed---his own bed, one that Jim had never shared. He flopped, neither helping nor resisting as Scotty stripped him to his underwear and tucked the covers around him.

He slept.

************************************************************

McCoy woke. Jim was dead. He looked up into Uhura's face, her eyes huge with the knowledge of how easily their roles could have been reversed. She handed him a glass of water. "There's a comm for you---Winona Halstead." She glanced away. "Ji---the captain's mother."

She hadn't needed to tell him who Winona was. He groaned, but levered himself to sitting. The water was cool and soothing, as was the brush of Uhura's gentle fingers in his hair. "Give me a minute."

Uhura nodded and turned away as McCoy forced himself to standing, bones aching. He winced---Jim would never call him Bones again, not stern or angry or annoyed. Not cajoling or whining or teasing. Not any way at all.

In the bathroom he did a quick cleanup, avoiding his face in the mirror. When he came back out a uniform was on the bed, a breakfast tray was on the desk, and Uhura was gone.

McCoy pulled on his clothes, took a large gulp of coffee. He thought about the decanter on the shelf behind him, but didn't touch it.

He hadn't gotten drunk when his father died by McCoy's own hand. He hadn't gotten drunk when his daughter was killed in a shuttle crash because her parents were too busy to pick her up from daycare. He hadn't gotten drunk when he found out his wife had blamed *him* for Joanna's death, and then took everything they'd owned in the divorce.

So he'd be damned if he'd get drunk because Jim Kirk's luck finally ran out.

The comm screen was on and he was in the seat before he realized it. The face looking back at him was enough like Jim's to make his guts twist. "Ma'am."

"Doctor McCoy." Winona Halstead, once Winona Kirk, was beautiful in a golden farm-girl kind of way. And at the moment almost painfully fragile. She was dressed in a uniform as well, and from the background in a cabin much like McCoy's. "It's been a while."

"Yes, ma'am." Far longer than it should have been, in McCoy's opinion. Many's the time he'd thought about shaking Jim by the shoulders. Shouting at the stupid fool that you didn't ignore the woman who birthed you. Just didn't. That Jim wasn't a god-damned orphan like McCoy was. How 25 years after his own mother's death, McCoy still dreamed of her rocking him in her arms. "How---how are you?"

"OK...I'm OK. Frank's meeting me at Starbase 17...we're going home, for a while." She shifted in her seat, the light shimmering along the tracks of dried tears on her face. "I just..."

Winona's lips thinned. "I always knew, somehow. That Jim wouldn't---that he'd never---" Her head dropped into her hands. "I never wanted him to go into space."

McCoy wished he could reach through the screen, lay a hand on her golden hair and remember the feel of Jim's beneath his palm. He'd thought the same, that with Jim things wouldn't last. Couldn't. Jim burned too brightly to burn long.

He just figured that the breakup would be due to Jim's roving eye. Not... "Yeah."

Winona straightened, seemed to gather her composure with a force of will that was achingly familiar. "You knew my son." The plea wasn't in her voice or face, but in those blue, blue eyes. "Tell me about him."

So McCoy did.

************************************************************  
************************************************************

McCoy stepped into the captain's cabin. Jim was dead. The quarters were as familiar as McCoy's own. He'd spent enough time here, over the two years that had passed since the last time Earth turned beneath the Enterprise's viewports.

But not in the last month. No one had entered these rooms since Jim's body had been consigned to a passing star. McCoy's eyes took in Jim's collection of...stuff. Objets d'art both beautiful and horrible, gifts from planetary dignitaries that Jim had accepted with an outward smile and an inward shrug. Models of different types of old Earth vehicles and modern starships, including a salt-shaker shaped like an older galaxy-class vessel. A handful of books McCoy had given him on un-birthdays, since Jim preferred to never mark the real date of his birth and his father's death. A few holos, mostly of Winona and Frank, and the crew. Some padds and clothes strewn around, declaring the captain's rush to meet his doom.

The bed was still rumpled from the last time Jim and he had shared it. McCoy swallowed, closed his eyes, breathed.

The whoosh of the door had him pivoting, fists clenching, lips stretching in a snarl. Couldn't he have one god-damned minute before---

McCoy blinked as Admiral Pike walked in. His doctor's training immediately noted the ease of movement, the straight and sure carriage of the man. He'd heard Pike had made a full recovery. "Sir."

"Doctor McCoy," Pike replied with a nod. His keen gaze swept the room, likely cataloging the ways Jim had made the space his own.

McCoy's spine stiffened. No matter how childish, he wanted to grab these *things* that were all he had left of Jim, clutch them to his chest and yell "Mine!" But all he said was, "I have permission from the next of kin to...retrieve a few mementos."

Pike waved away his explanation. "Spock told me I could find you here."

McCoy's eyes narrowed, wondering what Pike could possibly want to say to him. He wasn't sure he could handle words of condolence---if that was what Pike was here to offer. McCoy didn't know if Pike was aware of the...extent of Jim and his relationship. Jim had kept in touch with Pike, but never mentioned what they talked about. McCoy finally nodded, then dropped into the chair in front of Jim's desk.

Pike's attention seemed caught by the models. He reached out a strong but age-speckled hand and picked up the salt shaker. A smile softened his face, warmed the eyes he lifted to McCoy. "Kirk probably stole this from that bar in Iowa, the night we met."

He moved across the room, sat in the other desk chair and leaned back. One hand still toyed with the tiny ship. "That was the night I convinced him to join Starfleet...the night before he met you."

McCoy simply nodded. Before...before, McCoy would have been grumbling and telling the man to just get on with it. But he hadn't spoken much this last month.

He had the psych degrees, could pinpoint his position on the graph bisecting shock and grief. The seven stages stuff was crap, but he *was* in mourning. A widower without a wedding ring.

Pike's voice seemed too loud, too alive in Jim's room. "Spock's been offered the captain's chair---he doesn't want it. The Admiralty's decided to let me go back out with Enterprise, with her current crew." His gaze locked onto McCoy's. "I want you to stay on as CMO."

McCoy's mouth opened automatically to scoff. He'd be a fool to stay on an oversized tin can blithely daring the vacuum when he could have good solid ground under his feet.

But before the refusal could pass his lips, McCoy's eyes drifted past Pike's shoulder to the holos of the crew. The crew that over two years had become a family.

He had nothing left on Earth except a cemetery holding the graves of his dead and an ex-wife who despised him. Here...here, on Enterprise, were the people who knew Jim, who had laughed with him and feared for him and cursed at him and been proud of him.

Jim was dead, and the Enterprise was the only place McCoy could hold on to him.

He nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

Scotty stood, pushed up his visored cap and wiped his sleeve across his forehead, smearing the sweat beaded there. On Delta Vega, he'd dreamed of planets like this. Dreamed of alien suns drenching him in blessed heat.

But fuck if it wasn't bleedin' hot out here.

Still and all, he'd rather be on the Vulcan colony than on Earth, what with the anniversary of Kirk's death yesterday.

Not that there had been more than a mention on the daily newscast and maybe a fresh wreath at the Academy monument to the cadets and crews who died in the Narada attacks.

Scotty snorted; Kirk's legend was based around saving Earth. Gettin' chopped up to bits on a stupid-arsed away mission wasn't somethin' the brass wanted to emphasize. Put a little too much tarnish on the Fleet's golden boy.

So Enterprise was finishing up its first year post-Kirk at the colony that held the Vulcans they'd helped save---including that Old Spock who'd popped up with Kirk on Delta Vega and rescued Scotty from a life of snow-blinded boredom.

He shuddered at the reminder of his former existence. Then shook it off, adjusting his thin gloves and once more squatting in front of the sensor unit he was installing. The machine would record weather conditions and bioreadings for a fair section of the desert on this continent. The Vulcans wanted to have all the info on their new world.

Scotty'd bet they were itchin' to wander off into the dunes and cave-riddled mountains for meditations and such. But Vulcans were the soul of patience---'course they could be. No doubt havin' a few centuries to while away made one willin' to wait an extra year or two for things to happen.

But humans didn't get nearly so long to cram in all the fun and excitement of life. Figured, then, that they were an impatient lot. And Jim Kirk had been the very definition of fun, excitement, and impatience. 'Twas a shame there'd been so few years for him.

They'd had a good run under Jim Kirk. Wild at times and a mite harder on the engines than Scotty would've liked, but a good run. And in those two years the crew'd become kith and kin to Scotty, even that dour Mr. Spock.

Of course changes came over the twelve months since Kirk's death, with Chris Pike in command. Some things were better, some not. Most were just...different. The ship sailed as she always had under Scotty's sure hand, but with a new man guiding her course.  
For one, they'd gotten themselves an Andorian security chief, Tasal. He snorted. She was a wily blue vixen, tough as tritanium and with more goin' on between her antennae than most would guess. 'Twas no accident she wore the uniform skirt only while on diplomatic missions. On such occasions, Scotty wasn't alone in admiring the clean lines of her hull.

Aye, Starfleet'd learned from Kirk's mistakes---no longer did all the senior officers go traipsing willy-nilly onto every new world they stumbled across. Pike coordinated landing parties far more carefully than Kirk ever had---and no doubt about it, there'd been fewer casualties. The Sick Bay folks were likely glad of the lack of business.

Pike was a cautious man. Scotty had no inkling whether that had been the case before Nero'd had his way with the Admiral, but nowadays Pike's thinking was more in line with Mr. Spock's than Kirk's had ever been.

But like any well-designed mechanism, the rest of the crew had sensed the shift and compensated. 'Twasn't odd to hear young Chekov or Sulu pitching out bold ideas like so many low-grav flyballs, just to see where they'd bounce. Uhura'd become a most persuasive advocate of those devils, as well as her own unorthodox approaches. Many's the time her silvered tongue and fierce glare dueled with Spock's eyebrows and Tasal's antennae.

Even Keenser'd gotten damn near chatty---though Scotty *still* couldn't keep the wee green one off the engines.

By and by, Scotty wondered if Uhura and Spock continued their debates behind closed doors. Same with Tasal and Pike. Like as not, if the cabin-occupancy records were any indication.

As for himself, Scotty just wanted his crew and ship to sail safe and sound among the stars where they belonged. So he tossed in his tuppence when asked, worked an engineering miracle here and there when called for, and every day spoke a blessing for those they'd lost and those who were still with them.

A sudden shadow dulled the glare of the metal casing and draped Scotty in welcome coolness. He sighed. "Ye're a godsend. Maybe ya could stand right there fer the next half-hour while I finish up?"

There was a snort behind him. "Not a chance in hell," McCoy drawled. "Only mad dogs and Scotsmen spend time in this heat---even the Vulcans are smart enough to get under cover this time of day."

The doc's breath ghosted across Scotty's skin as the man leaned in and gave a low whistle. McCoy's tone held a wry kind of wonder. "The back of your neck's about as red as my granny's heirloom tomatoes."

Scotty shivered, first from the breath and the faint pulse of the regenerator, then from the spritz of something cool and slick on the back of his neck. Scotty glanced back; McCoy was nothing but a dark silhouette backlit by the sun. "Thanks, Doc."

He shifted from his crouch, grabbing his canteen. He flipped the top open and took several healthy swallows. Wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "So what're ya doin' in the middle of nowhere?"

The corner of McCoy's mouth lifted. "You mean other than rescuing engineers from sunburn?" He shrugged, sobering, hazel eyes moving to the baked landscape. "Just didn't wanna hang around the ship today."

Scotty nodded. He was glad to hear it. McCoy had locked himself in his cabin yesterday---hadn't even come out for the memorial service Pike'd held in the cargo hold. "So what're yer plans?" If McCoy didn't have any, Scotty would be quick to make a suggestion or two. He was always willin' to keep the doc company.

Some might say a little too willing, but Scotty'd never let slip just how *much* he liked McCoy. Certainly not when McCoy and Kirk had gotten together, and not after they'd lost the captain. Scotty respected McCoy's grief far too much to intrude upon it.

The doc had surprised more than a few folks with how well he'd coped with Kirk's death. He'd gone quiet for a long while, aye, but eventually he'd resumed the rumblings that revealed a grouchy affection for the ship and crew.

McCoy and Spock could even be heard "debating" again. Still in that snarky way of theirs, which Scotty was certain masked a true fellowship. Spock had Uhura, of course, but the Vulcan'd lost a real friend in Kirk. It was nice to see McCoy fill the slot as best he could, even playing chess with Spock from time to time.

"Actually I have an invitation to tea with the Ambassador." McCoy didn't look too thrilled, but just shrugged again. "I guess he wants to revisit all his 'old friends' while we're here."

Scotty snorted---wouldn't surprise him a bit. Last night Old Spock'd stopped by the engine room for a nip of scotch before heading back to the planet. Scotty liked both Spocks, and hoped their Spock would someday be able to relax the way his counterpart did. Old Spock always had a twinkle in his eye and was the most laid-back Vulcan Scotty'd ever seen.

The man wasn't half bad at warp calculations, either.

So Scotty grinned, ignoring the twinge of disappointment. "Well, ye'll be lucky to get back by morning." He kept his tone light. "Feel free to drop by for a drop of something if ya do manage to escape before start of shift."

McCoy gave that little almost-smile again. "I'll do that." Then he squinted at the sun. "No more than half an hour longer out here. I mean it---I'm gonna tell the transporter room to beam you directly to Sick Bay if you're not back by then."

"Aye, aye, Doc." Scotty watched McCoy walk back toward a ground vehicle the Vulcans had adapted for desert use. He shook his head at McCoy's continued aversion to the transporters. But he also wished he was finished already so he could've ridden back with the doc, spent a little more time in the man's company.

He sighed as he pivoted and returned to his tinkering, the coolness of the medicine lingering on his skin like the memory of a touch.

************************************************************

McCoy's skin prickled as he stepped into a foyer crafted of cool air and shadows. After a startled breath covered by the swish of the door closing behind him, he moved farther into the underground shelter.

Round holes the size of transporter pads had been bored straight up through the stone and covered with clear domes to scatter patches of sunlight along the floor of the main room. Utilitarian-looking furniture was set in precise patterns, along with a large smooth-topped slab of rock, something resembling a carved gargoyle, and a standard-issue comm/computer setup. A few succulent plants graced the space with a hint of life.

"I trust you find the conditions acceptable, Doctor." Ambassador Spock stepped through an archway to the right. He wore a loose, dark robe, a filled wooden tray carried easily in his weathered hands.

"I'm a bit surprised at the temperature," McCoy admitted as he crossed to meet "Old Spock" at a low table in the center of a group of four low-slung chairs. "Seems like most folks on this planet *want* the indoors near hot enough to pop corn."

Spock set the tray down in the center of the table and stooped to pour. "The difference in my preferences, I admit, is unusual. But I find that my body has too long adapted to the coolness of Federation starships." He lifted his gaze, and McCoy would swear the man winked. "And I find it helps keep my visitors awake."

Steam and the scent of Vulcan spice tea filled the air above the cup Spock held out. McCoy accepted it, cradled the thick ceramic in his hands as he breathed in the fragrance. He slid back in his chair. "On a ship or a planet, young or old, you seem the type to keep a person on their toes."

Spock's brows drew together as he lowered himself into the seat opposite. As he filled and lifted his own cup he tilted his head, fixing dark eyes on McCoy. "My younger counterpart and I are not the same person."

McCoy snorted. "That's for damn sure. Our Spock still needs to schedule the surgery that'll pull the stick outta his ass."

"I am quite serious, Doctor." Spock set down his tea and leaned forward. "Although we are both sons of Sarek, we are not the same---*Sarek* is not the same."

*That* was news. McCoy shifted, took a cautious sip before replying. "What exactly're you tryin' to say?"

"My father's face is not as I remember, nor his mind." Spock's voice hushed, as if sharing a secret. "In my universe, my mother's eyes were blue."

His gaze resettled on McCoy, even more intense if that were possible. Spock continued, "So were my Doctor McCoy's...and my Jim Kirk's eyes were hazel."

"Huh." McCoy could feel himself frowning as he absorbed the information. "So you and Nero didn't *create* an alternate reality---you crashed into one?"

"That does seem to be the case." Spock sat back, long fingers steepling in what seemed to be a habitual pose. "So I would advise you not to judge your Spock based upon your experience of me...every member of this Enterprise's crew is, in significant ways, unique."

McCoy shook his head, confused now. "So I'm guessin' I'm not here for a stroll down Memory Lane."

Spock's lips curved, just a little. "Not precisely." He reached into a sleeve of his robe and withdrew a padd. "It occurred to me that perhaps some events may repeat themselves, and should be provided for." He paused. "I had meant to give this to Jim, but never had the opportunity."

McCoy set down his tea and reached out with cautious fingertips. He flicked on the screen and began scrolling. There were files on Vulcan---and human-Vulcan hybrid---physiology, notes about the effects of certain spores, rays, and other phenomena. Also listed were a variety of cures, including one for...xenopolycythemia?

"I can't keep this information to myself." McCoy looked up as he gestured with the padd. "Too many people could be helped."

The Vulcan inclined his head in a graceful nod. "I am aware of the requirements of your oath, Doctor, as well as your personal commitment to healing."

Spock sighed; every year he'd lived was suddenly etched upon his face. "I have meddled already in this universe's timeline---it seems in this, at least, I will do more good than harm."

McCoy's eyes narrowed. He could feel suspicion creeping up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "Wanna explain that?"

Dark eyes met his as Spock said quietly, "I fear Jim Kirk's death is, in part, my fault."

Shock and grief clenched McCoy's gut, sharp and swift. Jim was dead, and Mama, and Dad, Grandpa and Granny, and Joanna...oh, Joanna. He breathed through the pain. "What?"

"My Jim Kirk...he did not come to his captaincy until after several years of service. Years in which his superior officers managed to somewhat temper his recklessness." Spock's eyes glistened with moisture. "Something I had not considered when I recommended Jim be given Enterprise immediately after the rescue of Earth."

Spock didn't shift one millimeter yet somehow seemed to shrink into himself as he swallowed, voice thick. "*Your* Jim...never had the benefit of that experience. And that lack led him to risk his life once too often."

Hundreds of sleepless nights echoed through McCoy's memory, questions and ponderings that he'd spent half a lifetime wrestling into peace of mind. He blew out a long breath as he set the padd aside and sagged in his chair. "Ah hell, Spock, nobody in this universe or any other could ever get *my* Jim Kirk to look before he leaped."

He glanced away a moment, remembering how *alive* Jim always seemed before transporting down into some crazy-ass situation that would've had anybody with half a brain shaking in their boots. "It's not like Jim died on his first mission. He *had* years---in the command chair. His death was his own fault and those natives'---and nobody else's."

McCoy sighed, focused once more on Spock. Willing the man to set aside his misplaced guilt, as McCoy had eventually banished his own. "Jim knew the odds, every time, and still took the risk."

His mouth curved in affection and regret. "I was sure that someday the bastard'd leave me hangin', but I always figured it'd be some pretty piece of alien tail that would do it." He shrugged. "I'd've rather had Jim dump me than die on me."

Spock seemed to revive a little, surprise arching his eyebrows as his back straightened. "You seem to have...reconciled yourself to the loss."

"I've had a lot of practice." McCoy couldn't help the bitter edge to the words. He closed his eyes a moment, let the sorrows wash over him again, one after another, and recede. He forced the next words out of a tight throat. "Near everyone I've ever loved has died---except my ex, Jocelyn, and I lost her just the same."

McCoy blinked and looked down at his hands as he flexed his fingers, remembering the feel of crisp blond hair under his palms. "I miss Jim---probably always will."

His hands wrapped into fists as he threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin. "But I'm sure as hell not ready to give up the ghost just 'cause he went and got himself killed."

Then McCoy shook his head and relaxed. No need to get riled. "I learned a long time ago that livin' is not just something you do, it's something you choose." He lifted a shoulder. "And I choose to keep kickin' around for as long as I damn well can."

Spock raised a single brow this time, then nodded again. "Indeed." He leaned forward to pick up his forgotten tea, expression serene once more. "It seems you and your counterpart are more alike than I first realized."

McCoy figured he and Old Spock had something in common as well---seemed like Spock had a stubborn streak as wide as McCoy's. He knew this Spock had already lost them all once, a long time ago. Spock had survived then, and he hoped that Spock would manage to do it again.

A quick shake of the head to clear his thoughts and McCoy was getting his own drink. He raised a silent toast to all the people who weren't here and to those who stuck around.

He settled back in his seat. "So...tell me about your Jim and I'll tell ya about mine."

************************************************************

When the chime rang, Scotty wasn't expecting anyone. *Hoping*, maybe, for a particular visitor, but definitely not expecting. A quick glance at the chronometer in the corner of his padd showed it wasn't all that far into the evening. "Come in."

McCoy seemed a little hesitant as he stepped through the opening. "I, uh, thought I'd take you up on that offer."

It was all Scotty could do to keep from beaming at the doc. "Aye, sure, great, um..." He launched out of the chair. "Have a seat."

Scotty bustled about, grabbing glasses and a bottle of his finest. Unlike some of his engineering staff, he knew McCoy would appreciate the smooth, mellow liquor.

And *sip* it, not guzzle it down like some swill cooked up in the tail end of the warp core.

When he turned back he stopped short and swallowed, the nerves in his stomach jumping. No reason for it, o'course, just 'cause McCoy was perched on Scotty's bunk.

They often sat like that, backs set against the wall as they sprawled side by side, knees dangling over the edge. 'Twas a lot more comfortable than the chairs, after all.

In another moment he shook himself out of his daze and took his own seat. He passed a glass to McCoy, a thrill running up his arm when their fingers touched. He poured a measure into McCoy's glass, then his own, and set the bottle aside.

He clinked their glasses. "To Jim Kirk."

"To Jim," McCoy echoed, and took a sip. His eyes half-closed as his lips curled in bliss.

Scotty hastily gulped his own drink, forcing his attention away from where McCoy's Adam's apple bobbed in a throat made to be nibbled. He swallowed again. "So what did you and the old man chat about?"

"Jim," McCoy said with a shrug. "His and ours, and how we're not the people he knew."

"That seems obvious enough." Scotty leaned back, let their shoulders brush. He turned his head to watch McCoy. "How're you doin', Doc?"

"OK." McCoy flicked a glance Scotty's way, then studied his drink. "Better than OK, actually."

McCoy's expression turned rueful. "This time last year, I couldn't imagine getting through a single damn day without Jim."

He lifted a shoulder. "Funny, how you forget. When a new blow comes it takes your whole universe with it. For a while, you forget all the other losses you've already lived through. Lived past."

"Aye," was all Scotty replied, voice soft. He shifted, turning his shoulder to the wall to face McCoy, then froze when he found McCoy's eyes fixed on him. Their mix of green and brown always reminded him of Scotland, of the endless stretch of moors and the years he'd called Earth home.

McCoy blinked and looked away. A flush crept along his cheekbones. "Sorry, got lost for a minute there."

"What were you thinkin' of?" Scotty wanted to reach out, feel the heat of McCoy's skin against his fingertips. Trace those full lips that tempted him so. He curled his free hand into a fist.

"Just...how Jim and I got together." A corner of McCoy's mouth lifted as he glanced over. "He was bored, I was lonely. Not exactly the start of an epic romance."

Scotty shrugged. "Seemed to work out well enough." When it first happened, Scotty'd had to suffer through some fierce jealousy. But that had eventually faded to the occasional twinge.

"Yeah. And maybe we'd have stuck together, in the long run." McCoy sighed. "Maybe not. I'll never know."

McCoy moved then, setting down his glass. He sat up and twisted to mirror Scotty's position. "What I do know, is that you were very kind to me, when Jim died. And you've been a good friend, before and since."

Scotty shifted as McCoy's eyes searched his. He could feel himself blushing, his mouth twitching nervously.

McCoy smiled, and it was a beautiful thing. Then he said, "You know, no matter how bad a day got, no matter how shitty I felt, all I had to do was visit you and I'd feel better."

With a deep breath, McCoy seemed to brace himself. "And after a while, Scotty," he whispered, "I started feeling something more."

He lifted a hand. Scotty's whole universe stopped as McCoy cupped his jaw, leaned forward...

McCoy's lips brushed his once, gently, then withdrew. Scotty stared as McCoy held perfectly still, watching him, expression a blend of uncertainty and hope.

"Are ya sure about this, Doc?" Scotty's brow furrowed as he set aside his glass, then lifted his hands to cup McCoy's shoulders. Now *he* was searching for answers. He knew McCoy wasn't a man to lie, even to himself.

McCoy's smile faded, but he kept his gaze fixed on Scotty. The uncertainty was stronger now, mixed in with familiar sorrow and a stubborn determination that was pure McCoy. "Yeah, I am."

He took a breath. "You probably think that it's too soon---maybe it is. But nothing I do is ever gonna bring Jim back. And I'm not gonna pretend I can't live without him, because I know I can. I've *learned* I can."

McCoy shrugged, looked away and back. "Jim would want me to move on---hell, he spent five years bitchin' at me to lighten up." He paused. "Question is, do you wanna help me?"

Scotty nodded. A year and a day was the old period of mourning. "All right, then."

He wished Jim Kirk well, wherever he may be, and reached for McCoy.

***************

McCoy maneuvered them around to lay full length on the bunk, Scotty a warm, welcome weight sinking him into the mattress. Body above him strong and hard and *alive*. Scotty's fingers dug into his shoulders, making McCoy gasp and buck his hips.

Their kisses were fumbling at first, noses bumping and lips clashing. But soon legs and arms and lips found their place. McCoy breathed in Scotty's scent, learned the man's scotch-tinged flavor. Let his own mouth open wider as he welcomed Scotty's playful tongue. He could feel Scotty's smile, felt within himself a mirror of the joy he knew would be gleaming in Scotty's bright eyes.

This was as far as McCoy could go, tonight and for a while yet. He needed time---time to learn Scotty, likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams. Time to share himself. Time to make the shift from friends to lovers. But they'd get there...that much McCoy was sure of.

He lifted his hands, one lightly resting on the back of Scotty's neck to stroke healed skin. Enjoying the way Scotty shivered against him and moaned down his throat. The other threaded through Scotty's hair, the dark strands sliding like silk through his fingers. So different from Jim---as it should be.

Jim was dead, yes. But McCoy was alive, and glad of it.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are welcomed with great joy and constructive criticism is treasured as a rare gift.


End file.
